


Petits Cadeaux

by ElegantPi



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantPi/pseuds/ElegantPi
Summary: A small slice of life in the Rochester household on Christmas Eve. Adele confides a trouble to Jane, and Mr. Rochester bestows early Christmas gifts.
Relationships: Jane Eyre/Edward Rochester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Petits Cadeaux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sobriquett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobriquett/gifts).



> Please forgive my lack of accent on Adele’s name - I’m typing this with a keyboard that does not obey my keystrokes very well.

“Jane, come here!” The gruff voice called me away from my correspondence and drew me into the foyer, where boots tramped frozen mud across the floors that Mary had cleaned just hours ago. Mr. Rochester and John both carried an armful of parcels. John had wiped his boots - my husband had forgotten the mat.

“Well, Jane, what do you think I’ve brought you from town?” He asked. 

“A load of mud, it appears,” I replied as he bent his head down for my kiss. 

“Coal for you, then, if that’s how you greet me after a long day’s labour,” he said. 

“Papa!” John Edward clamoured down the stairs, followed by Adele. Mr. Rochester set down his parcels and nodded John toward the drawing room as John Edward wrapped himself around his leg and stared at the pile of packages.

“Not one finger will you lay on the parcels,” Mr. Rochester said sternly to his small son as John came to retrieve the rest of the bounty. “I speak of course to Adele, who always looks for her cadeaux, n’est ce pas?” Adele smiled her sweet and gentle smile as she detached John Edward and scooped him into her arms, turning her face up for Mr. Rochester’s kiss, for he had long since come to love her as his own daughter, once a settled domestic life cured him of all the unhappiness that had caused him to withhold his affections.

The little scene, so similar to many others I had witnessed and partaken of in my years of happiness, swelled my heart to bursting still. My husband, with his roguish eyepatch, my adoptive daughter with her shining copper hair, and my vibrant, beautiful son, who, at six years old, was almost a copy of his father. Every bit of love I’d had for my husband had earned tenfold interest, and I never saw him after a few hours apart but that my heart beat faster with joy. 

I glanced away from Edward’s face and surprised a strange, wistful expression upon Adele’s face as she watched the two of us. I arched a querying eyebrow at her, and she pressed her lips and shook her head slightly. She had been quieter of late. I believed it to be the winter, darker and colder than usual, suppressing her spirits, but I wondered if perhaps something more was troubling her.

John returned to take the packages out of the way of John Edward’s ceaseless curiosity. I took Edward’s coat and hat and helped him out of his glove. Mary had come from the kitchen and was eying the mud drying on the floor. “Never mind,” I whispered to her, handing her Edward’s things. “I’ll help clean it up after tea.”

We went in to the parlor to wait for Mary to bring the tea, and Edward said, “A great storm is brewing up, it seems. Fitzjames will have rough going if they try coming up tonight as planned.”

“I hope they will stay over at Moor House and not try it, in that case,” I replied, though disappointment bit at me.

Adele rearranged a fidgety John Edward on her lap and rested her chin on his dark head. “Do you think it will last long?” She asked. “The storm? I am thinking of the Christmas ball at Ivywood, of course. I… we were all looking forward to it.”

Mr. Rochester had not, in fact, been looking forward to the Christmas ball at Ivywood, and his stormy expression at its mention might have rivaled the clouds I imagined gathering up the night sky outside our cozy parlor windows. Under the table, I laid a gentle hand on his knee and silently willed him to remember that balls were a pleasure to the young, and it had been a rather dreary autumn for Adele, as both John Edward and I had been ill, and she had been a constant help to Mary in nursing us, and to me managing John Edward in my convalescence as well as soothing Mr. Rochester’s worries.

Whatever scathing remark Mr. Rochester had been about to make regarding the ball he stored at the back of his tongue. “Perhaps the storm won’t last long, and you shall have as much gallivanting as your heart desires,” he said, gruffly. 

Adele’s long lashes fluttered, and her eyes gazed sightlessly into the fire. I made up my mind to speak to her before the night wore out.

Tea was merry, with John Edward climbing alternately on the knees of his mother, father, and sister. Mr. Rochester teased at the contents of the boxes he had brought home, and I smiled inwardly over my own little Christmas secrets. 

“Do you think Madame Rochester will be satisfied with her lump of coal?” Mr. Rochester asked Adele, “or will she transform it into something more pleasing to her?”

Adele’s eyes twinkled at him. “Madame Rochester and I know very well you will give her no such thing, of course,“ she replied.

“Oh, but I will,” Mr. Rochester said, mysteriously. “Coal she shall have.”

Adele sniffed. “You always say strange things, but you mean well.”

He reached over and tweaked a curl that had come loose from her coif. “You’ll get no coal or weeds if you’re saucy.”

“I thank you - I want nothing of the kind,” laughed Adele. 

“I will ignore you, Mademoiselle L’Insolence. Jane, would you like to see the coal I brought you? You deserve it even more for instilling this impertinence in my ward. At least my child is free of your impudence.” He eyed John Edward, who was playing with one of his tin soldiers on the hearth.

“No, I’m not!” John Edward declared. Mr. Rochester arched an eyebrow at me, and I let my eyes twinkle back at him.

“Certainly,” I laughed in answer to his question, wondering what nonsense he had got up to with his purchases. “The fire is low.” He rang the bell for John and spoke with him a moment.

“What about me, Papa? What about me?” John Edward begged. Mr. Rochester swooped him up and walked him around the room. 

“What about you, Captain Impudence?”

While father and son played soldiers on the hearth, Adele and I sat at the tea table. Her face was a study of apprehensive thoughts. “Adele, tell me what troubles you.”

“Oh… Madame, do not ask me.” 

“I must ask, and I must know,” I replied, gently. “Confide in me and be comforted, whatever it is.”

Adele twisted her hands in her lap and was silent. A tear slid down her cheek, startling me. Here was trouble, indeed! For Adele never cried. I handed her my handkerchief. “Now, you must tell me, for I can see that the trouble runs deep.”

“I’m afraid that you will disapprove of me,” she said. “But I will tell you - it will change nothing.”

“You’re in love.”

Her eyes widened. She glanced at the hearth, but Mr. Rochester and John Edward were hard at play and paying us no attention. “Madame, it is true. And for me, unwise. I love Monsieur Waverly. Mr. James,” she clarified, using the English title, for there were three Monsieur Waverlys of Ivywood, of which James was the third. No wonder the poor girl was so looking forward to the Ivywood ball. And no wonder her heart was so troubled. Although not wealthy, the Waverlys were an old English family and not likely to welcome a French foundling into their midst, however solid an English education she had had, and regardless of her guardian’s high standing in the neighborhood. 

“Does he love you, Adele? Has he written to you?” We had last visited at Ivywood in the autumn, at the harvest ball, and after that had not been abroad in the neighborhood due to illness and convalescence.

“He has only written once, and I told him I could not write to him without speaking to you, which I would not do when you were troubled with illness.” 

“And he abided by your wishes?” 

“Yes,” she said, her eyes downcast.

James Waverly was a good boy. Young man. I pressed Adele’s hand. “My dear girl, no wonder your heart has been so troubled this autumn.” I drew her to me, and she rested her head on my shoulder.

Just then, John appeared in the doorway, with three attractive boxes wrapped in silver paper. One was quite large, another medium-sized, and the last could fit in the palm of my hand. John Edward shouted with joy, and his father pressed his shoulder to quiet him. 

“Draw chairs up to the fire and receive the bounty of the earth - the coal and the weeds and the boles of the sturdy oak,” Mr. Rochester cried, chivvying us into the order he preferred. We, humoring him, arranged our chairs before the fire, and, seating himself in his royal way, he motioned John to distribute the boxes. The largest went to Adele, the middle-sized box to John Edward, and in my hand he placed the smallest box. 

As we had grown into our married life, Edward and I had softened each on our own points. His former extravagance had been sobered by sorrow and hardship, and my pride had been tempered by his delight in the giving of whimsical or ridiculous presents and in granting my errant wishes and whimsies. I hoped the tiny box did not contain so great a gift that I must refuse and thus draw on his anger, though that, too, had softened with time and love and the surcease of trouble.

John Edward had already torn off the wrapping as I contemplated the silver box in my palm. Adele held her box on her lap, avidly watching John Edward’s raptures. He lifted the lid and inside found a finely carved and jointed stable, and in it three lovely little wooden horses carved into prancing poses. On the walls of the stable hung little leather saddles and bridles, and the doors of the stalls swung open and closed on tiny silver hinges. Mr. Rochester lifted the stable out of the box while John Edward, silent with joy, watched with wide eyes.

“In the spring,” said Mr. Rochester, “You and I shall shrink down to this size, and I shall teach you to ride.”

“Truly, Papa?” 

“Truly.” He looked up at me, and I reluctantly nodded, though of course it was high time for John Edward to have a pony and learn to ride, like all the other boys of the neighborhood. “Now, Adele!”

Adele gave a little jump, and Mr. Rochester eyed her sharply. “What is the matter, girl?”

I laid a hand on Edward’s shoulder, and he subsided, encouraging Adele to open her box. She lifted the lid and drew from a wrapper of tissue paper a fine silk ball gown. “OH!” She cried and held it against her. It was simply and neatly made, and though Adele’s heart still longed for frills and laces and ribbons, she had learned to appreciate English elegance. And this gown was pure elegance. The silk shimmered in the firelight. “Oh. Monsieur Rochester…”

“For the Ivywood ball,” he said gruffly. “Don’t cry, girl, you’ll mark the silk with your tears.”

Smiling, Adele dabbed her eyes with my handkerchief, which she still had in her lap. “Merci bien, Monsieur,” she said, softly. 

“C’est une simple bagatelle.”

She rose, and kissed his cheek, a caress which he endured with a grimace. He waved her back to her seat. “Enough, enough. Now, I want to see Madame Rochester open her cadeaux.

I lifted the lid of the box to find another box inside, this one of silver filigree. Opening that box, I saw, on a cushion of black velvet, a shimmering diamond pendant in a simple setting. I opened my lips to protest, and he reached up to lay a finger on them. “Let me,” he said, “Have the pleasure of seeing you wear this at the ball.” For an answer, I kissed him, and he seemed quite pleased with that alone.

“But I also have a gift for you,” I said, “though I had thought to wait until Christmas morning.” I rang the bell for Mary and bade her bring me the boxes I had set aside.

Edward opened his to find a gold watch chain and his favorite pocket watch repaired and polished upon it. For Adele, a string of amber beads. And for my son, a rocking horse with a mane and tail of fine black yarn, carried in by John and Mary. 

“It seems we had the same mind,” Mr. Rochester said, placing the delighted John Edward upon the rocking horse.

“Always,” I replied.

Soon, Mary carried John Edward up to bed, exhausted with his joy, and Mr. Rochester retired to his drawing room. Adele and I sat in silence for a while.

“There surely shall be no one with such a beautiful gown at the ball,” she said after a time. “Nor with such beautiful ornaments.” She stroked the amber beads.

“I will not tell you that your way will be smooth,” I said. “I wish I could better comfort you.” 

“I know,” she said. 

“As a third son, he will have very little of his family’s estate. He is a scholar, I believe?”

“Yes —“ she said. “He studies philosophy and astronomy and will soon go to Cambridge.”

“Well,” I said, “You will not be without means yourself, Adele. I have made provisions for a dowery, and you are a good, educated, decent, and kind-hearted girl. These things will stand you in good stead, regardless of any other circumstances.”

She slid from her chair and came to lay her head on my knee. “I am so glad,” she said, softly, “that you and Monsieur Rochester found one another. I cannot help but have hope, having seen how fate dealt with you, at first with a rough hand, but then with gentleness. I envy your love each for the other. I think… I hope… I know that Monsieur James and I have that within us.”

“I am sure of it, Adele.” I stroked her hair for a moment, and then rose from my chair. She stood and gathered up the gown, arranging its delicate folds carefully in its box. On top, she coiled the strand of amber beads. 

“I would like for Monsieur Rochester to know my trouble,” she said.

“I will tell him, Adele,” I said, touched and grateful that both he and I had her trust and her love.

“Then, goodnight.” She kissed me, and I kissed her. We parted at the door, as I moved to join my husband in his drawing room and coax him up to bed, but she paused at the foot of the stairs and turned. “Whatever happens,” she said, “this is home. I am so happy here, with you, with Monsieur Rochester, with John Edward. That will never change.”

“No, Adele, that will not change.” My heart ached for her, and I watched her go up the stairs, hoping that fate would deal as kindly with her gentle heart as it had with my own passionate one.

In the drawing room, Edward waited for me. I drew him up from his chair, and he leaned on me as we went upstairs. “Well, Jane?” He said.

“Adele is in love, sir.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Tell me all about it.” 

By the firelight in our room, I told him the tale, and he agreed that it would be difficult. “I’ll speak to Waverly at the ball,” he reassured me, resting his chin on my head. “That Waverly boy is smart and hardworking, and I’ve heard nothing bad of him. Perhaps it will all be well.”

“Indeed, sir. I pray that it will.”

“We will do our best for Adele. In the meantime, Merry Christmas, Mrs. Rochester.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Rochester. God bless you.”

“And you, dear Jane. And you.”

As I nestled into my husband’s arms, I felt that God was good, and all would be well, for us, for Adele, for the future. The wind howled and rattled at the windows, but inside, all was peace and stillness and warmth. I blew out the candle and that night dreamed of Adele wrapped in a bright, filmy veil, her joyful visage crowned with a wreath of pink and yellow flowers.


End file.
